


Treading Water

by RingosLiverpool8



Category: The Beatles
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, John's got body image issues, M/M, Paul and George are athletes, Sport!Fic, Swimming, They're a bit different than usual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9490310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RingosLiverpool8/pseuds/RingosLiverpool8
Summary: John Lennon: tough, sarcastic, leather jackets and cigarettes, hidden intelligencePaul McCartney: collected, understanding, best dressed 2016, and just a little sassyOh, and did I mention Paul wears a speedo?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so here's this. Just something I started to unclog my creative processes. Not super great, I may trash it. Burn it. Sacrifice it to the cat.
> 
> Anyway.   
> I don't own the Beatles

“Why am I taking this class, again?” John Lennon asked himself, standing in front of the mirror in the school locker room. He pinched at the exposed skin, watching it wiggle a little too much for his liking.

_Because you flunked the other one, that’s why._

“Fuck.”

Now, John wasn’t unattractive, but standing there in swimming trunks was not appeasing to the eye. At least, that what he thought. He felt completely exposed. The whole school didn’t need to see him in basically just his underwear. There was a reputation for him to uphold. Sighing, he wrapped his white towel around his shoulders, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone else in the locker room. Still holding the towel around his body, he packed away his clothes in his bag, taking as much time to do so as he could.

Not long after, two other people entered the locker room and John tightened his grip on the towel.

“Can you believe we have to do this, Paul? I mean, it’s not enough that we practice 20 plus hours a week, is it?” The voice came from a tall, lanky boy just a little younger than John. He had brown eyes and brown hair to match. He was accompanied by another boy John guessed around his own age, maybe younger, but more built and filled in. John would even say _muscular_.

“It can’t be that bad, Geo. Besides, there are regular students taking this class.” The other one, Paul, answered back. They didn’t seem to notice, or they didn’t care, that John was in the room with them. Paul began to change as if he were in there by himself, just casually stripping away layer by layer of his clothes until he was completely naked. When John looked up again, the one Paul called ‘Geo’, had done the same thing.

They were both incredibly fit, as in, they looked like they worked out. A lot. The whole situation made John even more self-conscious and it worsened when the pair put on their swimsuits. If John could call it that. They wore fucking speedos and they looked tight. John hoped they didn't want children.

“There’s always the possibility that Coach stuck his nose in places it doesn’t belong. You know as well as I do that Epstein has a knack for that. Remember the email he sent to Mr. Martin?” The skinny one asked and John wanted to throw up. There were actual swimmers taking the damned class.

“’lo, John.”

His thoughts were disrupted by his best friend standing there with a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Stu! Fucking hell. Thank God you’re in here.” John felt a wave of relief wash over him, knowing he’d know someone else. But, it was replaced with self-consciousness since Stu looked a hell of a lot better than he did in trunks.

“It’s just swimming, John. We’ll do a couple up and downs and be done. Now, come on. We’ll be late.”

Reluctantly, John followed Stu out of the locker room, feeling the pungent smell of chlorine violate his nostrils as the door was opened.

The pool looked extremely uninviting. And Cold. Definitely cold. He glanced over to the two swimmers he saw in the locker room and they were comfortably chatting with the gym teacher, laughing every so often. The gym teacher handed the pair of them a white piece of paper and pointed to one of the roped off sections of the pool, which Stu so graciously told him was a ‘lane’. The skinny one groaned and looked like he spouted off some expletives to his friend.

“Why are they in this class if they can already swim?” John asked.

“Dunno. Maybe they failed the other one as well?” Stu replied staring at the pair in question. They both jumped in the water and started swimming side by side. “It does amaze me how they make it look so easy. I was on a swim team as a kid and I didn’t move anywhere.”

“You mean to tell me, Sutcliffe, that you’ve done this before?” John nearly growled.

“Well, yeah. Didn’t you have swim lessons?” Stu looked at him with an incredulous expression.

“No. No, I didn’t, Stu. Uncle George taught me how to at least survive and that was it. Mimi thought such things were, oh, how’d she say it, ‘menial’.”

Stu shrugged at his friend, unsure of what to say for fear of how quickly John’s mood turned. John just pouted and watched the two swimmers endlessly going back and forth down the pool. _How obnoxious and boring is that?_ He thought, _who’d want to do that for hours on end? I bet they’re pricks, too._ John was an outcast, but he wasn’t unpopular. Mostly, people were afraid of him. He had that ‘though-guy’ look to him. On occasion, he’d clash with the _other_ group. The stuck-up, daddy pays for it all, dicks. Most of them were in sports. He doubted those two in the pool were any different.  

 A few other students trickled in, a couple of girls and three more guys. He winked at the girls even though they were not his type. Nor were they that attractive to him. John had a reputation to uphold.

 The gym teacher, a portly man who might have been in-shape in his hey-day, approached the group of students. Obviously not wanting to be there, he sighed.

“I’m Mr. Andrews, as you all know, let’s not make this difficult. Do exactly as I say and you’ll pass. Swimming is a different kind of sport. It takes endurance and a whole new set of muscles you aren’t used to using. Tomorrow, you will be sore…”

“Fuck.” John cursed under his breath, earning a reassuring pat on the back from Stu. He tuned out whatever else kind of garbage _Mr. Andrews_ was spouting out of his mouth. He had other things to worry about and drowning was definitely one of them. Although, at that point, John welcomed it.

_This is going to be a fucking train wreck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2!
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own the Beatles

The school’s pool was a nice facility with two pools separated by a bulkhead and an ability to become one huge pool by an adjustment of that bulkhead. The small tiles on the floor were white and blue. The pool itself was raised on the end with the ‘blocks’, as Stu annoyingly informed him again. That end of the pool was 4m. Thankfully, and John really meant thankfully, they would be using the part of the pool that was only .9m. However, that meant he couldn’t drown. He’d have to get creative.

He waited back a little behind the other students, still nervous about getting in. A white gutter surrounded the pool at water level, so John stuck just the top of his big toe in the pool. “Nope. No. I’m not doing this. It’s too fucking cold.” He tried to turn around and run but Stu gave him a look of annoyance and pushed him in. John flailed in the water dramatically and came up like an angry cat.

“You’re not going to die, John.” Stu said before jumping in to join him. “And plus,” he added, dipping down to cover the rest of his body in the pool, “you don’t run on a pool deck.”

 “Fuck you, Stu.” John sneered, wrapping his arms around his body, still shivering. He felt the rough plaster on the bottom of the pool as he scraped his foot across. Stu was happily going underneath the water and coming back up, not bothered at all by the water getting in his eyes and John could feel the jealousy coursing through his body, hot and green. He wished it could be that simple for him.

“Today, we’re going to start with a 100 freestyle. That’s four lengths of the pool.” Mr. Andrews spoke above them on the pool deck. “That’s freestyle over there if you look at Mr. McCartney and Mr. Harrison.”

The class looked over to the two swimmers, who, John noted, were _still swimming_. Perhaps John did feel a little sorry for the two swimmers because it didn’t look like they’d stopped since they got in.

“You do one arm at a time in a circular motion, almost like a wheel, and you kick up and down with both feet. You breath to the side in what is called ‘rotary breathing’. For today, though, I will allow you to keep your head out of the water. But at the end of the class, you are expected to swim a 200, that’s eight, freestyle. 100 of it will be with your face in the water.”

Fear gripped the insides of John’s stomach, making him extremely nervous. This class was only half the semester, there was no way he would be able to do that. It was like Stu could sense the stress radiating from his body.

“Just swim as you normally would, John. Today doesn’t matter.” With those words, Stu pushed off the wall and started swimming. Lennon swallowed hard and followed. He kept his eyes on his friend in front of him, mimicking what he was doing. Much to John’s surprise he made two of the lengths without much trouble, but halfway on his third, he panicked and barely made his way to the other end. At the wall, his arms were shaking and his breathing hard. He looked to his left and saw the two swimmers and his eyes got wide as he realized they were looking at him. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks, however, before he could look away, the one called Paul gave him a smile and a nod. A little gesture of encouragement. John turned back around, knowing the others in the class were waiting on him to finish.

“Come on, John!” Stu called and John looked over again to see Paul in the lane next to him.

“Control your breathing and go easy. It’s not about swimming fast.” Paul smiled lightly and ducked under to go back where the other swimmer was.

“Control your breathing.” John whispered to himself then closed his eyes and pushed off. _Easy. Easy._ He thought and slowly but surely, he made his way to the other end.

Stu punched John’s shoulder. “See! Not so bad, eh? So what did that dick say to you?”

“Huh?”

“That asshole, McCartney, or whatever?”

John shook his head to get some of the water off his hair. “Nothing, really. It wasn’t insulting if that’s what you mean.”

“I-”

“Right. Now that we’re all warmed up, we’ll do some 25’s. That’s just one. Remember these numbers I’m giving you. They’ll be on the exit exam. Now, we’re going to change up some strokes, that’s the term for the different styles of swimming you can do. There are four. We’ve done Freestyle. The other three are, and we’ll do them in this order, Backstroke, Breaststroke, and Butterfly. The latter of the three, I don’t expect any of you to be able to do, but we’ll learn the basics of it…”

John tuned out the rest of Mr. Andrews’ speech, keeping his mind on a certain swimmer. _I guess maybe he’s not such a ponce after all._ He started listening again and caught the end of the speech.

“Now, I don’t expect you to look like Mr. McCartney when you swim. Being that effortless and graceful in the water takes time and hours and hours of practice.”

“I think Mr. Andrews wants a little more from McCartney…” Stu snickered.

John huffed in response, feeling the joy of poking fun at the swimmers slip away. He couldn’t help but think again, _his type are never that nice. I wonder if there’s a motive behind it?_

The rest of the time in class was spent working on ‘Backstroke’ and by the end of the class, John could successfully swim half the length of the pool backstroke without stopping. He knew he looked bad doing it, slapping his arms in the water like a maniac, but it worked for him. He successfully made it to the other end. Stu fared better than he did, but John didn’t really notice, or care, anymore. He was rather enjoying himself, flapping around like an idiot. Stu practically had to pull him out of the pool.

“Come on, mate. We’ve got the rest of the day to get through.”

“Fine.”

It was freezing when John finally got out. He walked quickly to the locker room to jump in the shower. Stu already had half his clothes on when he got in there, but John didn’t care if he came late to class. Paul and the skinny one were in the showers, talking when John came in. They were completely naked and unashamed about it, too.

“This won’t kill you, George. We actually get to wake up later for morning practice.” Paul said as he dipped his head back under the water. John averted his eyes the best he could but his eyes wandered every so often to the taller one. Paul. He was attractive, John had to admit, and he looked like a swimmer, like the ones he saw on TV when his Uncle had the Olympics on TV. His eyes were what you would stereotypically describe as doe-eyes. And they were hazel…or green, John wasn’t too sure.

“That’s what you think, Paul.” George grumbled back and shut off his shower, leaving John and Paul alone.

Paul started to hum an unknown melody and John’s brain groaned in response.

_I am completely and utterly fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a question. I am obviously an American and have only ever been to Germany. So, are there facilities in England like a YMCA (a sports complex with a weight room, pool, etc., all in one building)? Its part of the story....  
> Also, if you have any questions about any of the swimming jargon and it needs to be explained, don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> Thanks bunches  
> RingosLiverpool8 (a clueless American) :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter! Enjoy!

Learn this, read that, write this down. The song of John’s every day at school. Whether he did any of that, remains to be seen, but alas, there he was. Every single (That’s a lie. Stuff to do, people to see, you know?) fucking day. Today, though. Today, John couldn’t get two things out of his head. One was Paul. Two, that song he hummed in the locker room. John hadn’t heard it before, but it sounded good. Really fucking good.

Sitting in 18th Century English Literature, John snuck out his phone and sent a quick message:

>               PARK, 2?

He stuck the phone between his thighs and smirked at his on-and-off girlfriend, Cynthia. As far as John knew, they were currently ‘on a break’. He’d seen _Friends,_ all of them, though, he’d never admit that to anyone. He knew exactly what that meant. Look but don’t touch. John really did like Cynthia. She was very attractive, blonde hair, high-cheekbones, all the stuff they tell you in Psychology books. But, _God_ , was she boring. That’s why they broke up and got back together so many times, John was easily bored.

His phone buzzed between his legs.

>               sure. bring your ciggies. martin took mine.

John typed back a ‘wink’ emoji and put his phone away. Maybe a smoke and a big of sagging off with Stu would take his mind off Paul. Or so he thought.

“Ah. Class, we’ve got a new student, Paul McCartney. Transferred from Ms. Willis’ class,” Mr. Martin introduced before turning back to said student. “Paul, you may take the open seat next to John, there.”

 _Fucking hell._ John wanted to sink under the desk and become one with the floor. The younger boy nodded with a smile and took his seat and John wanted to snap at the girls who giggled as he sat. John sat wide eyed, eyes at the front of the classroom, sensually aware of the boy to his left. Mr. Martin droned on about Johnathan Swift and whatever novel he supposedly wrote that John should have read but didn’t. _Why don’t I listen for once! That’ll distract me…_

“…he also partook in the political commentary of the time along with the other greats of the 18th century…”

_Oh hell no. How much longer-_

“Right. So, split up into groups and scan the text that is being passed out. Find anything you think might be an underlying meaning, sarcasm, or commentary. Please be able to defend your choices.” Mr. Martin ruined any of the strength he had left. The sweats were starting to break and he couldn’t find any words. Especially when:

“Do you want to work together?”

John slowly turned his head to the left. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “S-sure.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I honestly know nothing about what we’re doing, though.”

Paul’s wide eyes searched John’s apprehensive ones, adding to John’s nerves. “Tha’s alright. My father made us read the classics as kids. I’ll find the things in the excerpt and explain them to you.” Paul furrowed his brow and then added, embarrassed. “Not that I think you’re stupid, just that you said-”

“I know.” John laughed. “Thanks.” _Ok. I can do this. He’s a bumbling fool like me. Easy._ He watched as Paul skimmed through their assignment, underlining several sentences and fragments with black pen. _Paul’s left handed_ , John mentally noted.

“I’ve underlined lines that could be religious commentary. Swift often wrote about that. You’ve been reading _Gulliver’s Travels_ which discusses the philosophies or ideas of humanity.” Paul stated looking down at the paper in front of him.

John laughed nervously. “You probably should have been with another partner. I’m practically useless.”

“Not useless. You can read.” Paul handed him the paper with the explanation written on the back and added. “I assume.”

“Git. Of course I can read. Although this frilly handwriting throws me off a bit.” John smirked, feeling the tension slide off his shoulders.

“It’s no use Johnny. I’m secure in my masculinity.” Paul said with a sarcastic wave of his hand and a raise in his voice.

John snorted and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll bet. Shamelessly walking around the locker room with your bits hangin’ out. Have you no decency?”

Paul smiled, enjoying the challenge. “It’s on you for staring.”

“I wasn’t staring. One look was enough.” John concluded. _I am unashamedly flirting in public. But…so is he…._

“So, you were looking, then?”

“If I started walkin’ around with me willy out, most people would.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.” Paul laughed, his eyes and nose wrinkling. “We’re used to it, you know? With swimming. There’s no embarrassment anymore. Speaking of that, you made an improvement…”

“Improvement on what?”

“Swimming. You didn’t look as terrified.”

“It was fun. Once I realized. But what you were doing looked like hell incarnate.”

“Definitely not the worst Eppy has ever done to us. But yeah, that’s one way to describe it. I don’t mind as much as George does. More or less because George’s practices are much worse than mine will ever be. He swims distance freestyle, you know. I do mid-distance IM and free.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I’ll take your word for it, lad.”

There was a comfortable silence that fell over them as Mr. Martin called on a select few students, JohnandPaul not included. John watched as Paul took notes, his desk still pushed next to John’s. They turned in their work (really Paul’s) at the end of the class and parted ways with a simple wave coupled with a muttering of ‘bye’. John wanted to ask about the song Paul hummed that morning, but he didn’t want to be late for Stu. There would be other opportunities as they were now in the same class. John did want to look up something, though. So, he brought out his phone and searched his school’s athletic page for the swim team’s schedule. They had a home competition this weekend.

He opened another browser and typed in ‘Swimming’. He had a lot of research to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> I don't own the Beatles

“John, are you even listening?”

“Hm?” John replied to Stu, whom he’d met outside the school to skip the rest of the day.

“What’s got you so interested? You texting Cynthia, again?” Stu blew the smoke from his cigarette in John’s face who waved it off with a curl of his lips.

“No. It’s none of your business.” He took another look at his browser and closed it, mentally marking his spot on the Wikipedia page on Michael Phelps. Stu stared at him, clearly not amused that John so blatantly ignored him, but John didn’t give a rat’s ass. He usually blocked out John’s incessant jabbering about this artist or that. Usually Banksy…always Banksy.

“What’s so interesting, then, John? You could at least pretend to listen to me.” Stu took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke in perfect rings. “Is it Cynthia?”

_Better he thinks it’s her than McCartney._ “Uh, yeah. I’m not sure there’s a ‘getting back together’ this time.” John lied, sort of. He had to think about the what ifs. Right now, he’s making himself available for Paul, but he needed a fallback in case Paul either (a) was a heterosexual or (b) turned him down. At least with option ‘b’, there would be room for more chances.

“I highly doubt it, you two always seem to get together even in the most impossible of circumstances.”

“I suppose…” John trailed off.

“Let’s get out of here. Maybe get some greasy food, get your mind off things.” Stuart stomped out his cigarette, mercilessly squishing it to the ground with the tip of his shoe. He urged John to follow him with a nod. The pair made their way, neither taking a second look at the school they left behind.

**TIME SKIP: WEEKEND**

John Lennon was a nervous wreck. Over the week he’d gotten to know the younger lad, McCartney and that did him in completely. Paul wrote his own music, like John. Paul played guitar, like John. Paul sang, like John. Why John couldn’t just bloody shag Paul right then and there baffled him, he supposed it had something to do with ‘Public Indecency’.

It INFURIATED John in the best possible way. The only problem was that Paul didn’t know it and John was too much of a chickenshit to do anything and on top of that, Cynthia hasn’t even spared him the time of day. He figured she felt miffed that John decided to not get back together and risk being rejected because in that decision lied the compulsion to go to the home swim competition. A lapse in courage led to John almost forgetting the whole idea and resolving to pine after Paul in silence and from a distance.

In the mirror, a flushed face looked back at him. If he was going to do this, it had to be now. John almost gave in, to trade his form fitting clothing for the comfort of his fleece pajama pants, but the buzz from his phone distracted him. Instantly, he regretted checking it.

              _I’ll talk to you later, John. I’ve got a competition today. Coach doesn’t like us on our phones._

Paul. _Paul._ Paul. Paul. PAUL. Fucking Paul. They exchanged phone numbers, John managed to do that and they’d been texting periodically. So, that was a start in his mind, no matter how innocent the act seemed, though the conversations were never more than about music and school.

_Well,_ John thought as he brushed off his pants and smoothed out his shirt, _here goes nothing._

~~PAUL’S POV~~

“’ey, Paulie?”

Paul McCartney turned his head to face the speaker, George, instantly recognizing his voice, an accent Paul desperately tried to emulate with no success. “Yeah?”

“Is there something going on between you and that Lennon bloke?” The skinny lad held his gaze at the crowd, scrutinizing the corner of the natatorium bleachers.

“Careful there, Count Olaf, you’ll burn a hole.” Paul joked before answering. “He’s just a friend from English lit. Why?”

Being the best friend of Mr. ‘I Can Charm The Pants Off Anyone’, George could sense the emotion in his mates statement, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “Well, he always stares at you. Like in the locker rooms and shit. Not to mention he’s there in the stands.

Paul immediately jerked his head to follow George’s eyes and sure enough there sat John Lennon, bored. Heat suddenly rose in his cheeks as he remembered some of the questions John had asked him about swimming and it all made sense. At first, he thought John was using him to answer questions on some kind of study guide for class, however, he understood now that John genuinely wanted to know.

_“What do you swim?” “How many is that?” “Are you fast?” “Do you like Michael Phelps?”_

The memory made Paul chuckle, earning him a squinted glance from George. “Yeah a _friend._ Sure, Paul.” After a moment of companionable silence between them, George slapped Paul’s arm. “Now you have an excuse to get rid of the Orc…er I mean Thomas.”

Paul huffed. “Would you quit calling him that? He doesn’t look like an Orc.”

Ignoring him, George continued. “So that’s a definite that you’ll finally rid yourself of that bastard?”

“He’s not that bad, George!”

“He’s a pity case, Paul, and you know it. You wince every time you kiss. You’re just hurting the lad more.”

Truth rang loud and clear from George’s voice and Paul knew it. Thomas Kellert had been a close friend all throughout school and out of the blue, three years ago, Thomas kissed him. Paul didn’t have the heart to tell him no. Not after all the stress Thomas went through. He was bullied, Thomas was, the school system did nothing about it and neither did his parents. They came from the same background, too, middle-high to high-class society. Their mothers were close as were their fathers, outside of the courtroom that is. Both McCartney and Kellert seniors were big money lawyers, taking on the high-profile cases and often times opposites in the same case.

When Paul lost his mother, Mrs. Kellert helped out a lot in their household, knowing they would need it. Mr. Kellert was like a second father and Paul meant that in every comparison. They were both distant, career-crazy and in Paul’s mind, emotionally negligent. Mrs. Kellert did nothing about it either, standing idly by while Thomas was berated for not ‘being a man’ and ‘being weak’ and ‘being a sad excuse for a son’. Those were the nights where Paul stayed up to the wee hours in the morning listening to Thomas’ sobs and eventually falling asleep on Paul’s bed. He supposed that was where the feelings began since they would often sleep together.

“In conclusion, you should let Thomas go and pick up John, because he’s more attractive and I’d say he has a mysterious quality about him. Plus, I ship it.”

Paul shook his head, realizing George had been rambling on the entire time Paul was having his internal crisis moment. “Not that simple, Geo.”

McCartney sighed and glanced up at John again, secretly pleased that he came. Peeking around for any sign of their coach, he took out his phone.

              _I see you._

He thoroughly enjoyed the look of horror mixed with realization spread across John’s face as their eyes met. Paul couldn’t deny that he had feelings for Lennon, but his current situation didn’t allow for much more than shameless flirting and even that he felt a little guilty about. George nudged his arm and he shrugged at John as Coach Brian Epstein called them into a team meeting.

“I fully expect to win today, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try. I’ll know if you don’t. The 500 has been scratched from the meet, I didn’t want you to swim alone, Harrison, so you’re in the 100 breast instead.

Paul snorted and George punched him.

Epstein dismissed them all for a team cheer but not before pulling Paul off to the side. “You better win today, McCartney. I can’t have your father riding my ass for your poor performance of late.” He didn’t bother to stick around for Paul to defend himself and walked off to the opposite team’s coach.

“What happened?” George pressed him after the cheer.

“Brian’s just doing his job…” Paul knew he hadn’t been performing great lately. The drive he used to have wasn’t there anymore. No one came to watch him swim. His father off on some business meeting and little brother Michael off with his juvenile friends doing god knows what. Thomas didn’t come because of what the chlorine did to his breathing. He looked up to John in the bleachers, _if only it were that easy._ They locked eyes and John quickly typed out a message and Paul felt it seconds later in his jacket pocket.

              _you’re as fast as that phelps dude, right?? because that’s what i came to see, McCartney._ __


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Here's this.
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own the Beatles

Paul’s POV

The Starter’s whistle blew, alerting the start of the meet with the girls 200m Medley Relay. Paul stood behind the blocks with his teammates to cheer the girls on and to prepare for their race right after. Unfortunately, their girls team this year is weak, as the majority of the scorers graduated last year and not many swimmers came in with the new set of students. Luckily for him, Paul’d been able to keep his spot on the men’s relay, despite his poor performance of late.

Paul jumped up and down, listening to his music that helps him relax a little bit. _My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark_ blared through his beats. The beat of the song allows for jumping up and down to get the blood flowing through his muscles and ready for the cold water. As per current tradition, Paul completed his pre-race routine by glancing up at the stands. He still sometimes expects to see his father in the stands, like he used to do when his mother was alive. As much as he didn’t want to admit, this was where his confidence was shattered. The disappointment of finding no one in the stands cheering for him took a toll on his mental state every meet.

Today, however, during his scan, his eyes meet John’s and his phone buzzed.

> _Faster than phelps, mccartney ;)_

Finding John’s eyes again, Paul stuck his tongue out at him.

“Are you ready, Paul?” his teammate asked curtly. They’ve been unkind to him due to the string of losses they’ve had in the past few meets and because Epstein won’t take Paul off the relay. His teammates chalk it down to favoritism, but it really had to do with the fact that his father threatened Epstein on a regular basis both with money and influence. McCartney senior donates a lot of money to the program. Whether or not some money goes to Epstein is unknown to Paul. It definitely bugged him, but the last time he tried to confront his father, he’d been grounded for a week. It was then that his performance began to drop, well, that and the amount of emotional giving he’s constantly expending on Thomas.

With another side glance at the stands and at John, he felt better than he had months. Someone was up there. To see him. Him specifically. Something not even his own family, let alone boyfriend thought to do.

He lined up in third position behind the breaststroker and prepared for the starter’s whistle. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

~~~~

John’s POV

> _Want to meet after the meet? Dinner, maybe? I know a great place._

John stared at the message from Paul, making his heart beat fast and hard in his chest. Paul really was a good athlete…considering he won every single one of the races he swam, showing up the competition, and earning a vivacious roar from the audience, himself included. Not to mention the guy looks pretty damn fit in a speedo.

He typed quickly, hitting send before he could change his mind.

> _Dinner sounds good. Meet me outside the pool. I’ll drive us._
> 
> _Perfect._

John read the short reply, still not sure what it was about Paul that turned him into a hormonal fool. Tucking his phone away, he exited the stands to wait out in the lobby. He really hoped for some kind of chance with Paul; he needed a change from the constant up and down with Cynthia. If John was being honest, he was tired. Tired of having to fight all the time. It seemed like Cynthia did it just to keep the focus on herself, making John feel like the “bad guy”. Paul, at least from what he knows, was a decent person all around.

“Hey.”

John spun around to Paul’s greeting. The man in front of him still had wet hair from the shower and had large protrusion on his left shoulder under his jacket. Being mostly blind without his glasses, it looked like a strange deformity.

“Hey. What’s that?” John wondered, reaching out to poke it, but getting slapped on the hand in the process.

Paul chuckled. “Ice for my shoulder. I have tendonitis in by bicep.”

“I’m assuming that’s not a good thing?”

“It’s not impairing, if that’s what you’re asking. Just hurts sometimes.”

John scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “If it hurts, why keep going?”

The other boy considered it for a moment. “It’s all I’ve ever done, I guess. Can’t imagine doing anything else. Plus, I’m shite at anything on land.”

“I doubt that.”

“You’ve never had to see me run. It’s quite embarrassing really.” Paul laughed and then suggested, “Walk and talk?”

“Yeah,” John agreed, “So this ‘great place’ you speak of?”

“It’s just a few minutes from here. You like Italian?”

“Naturally. Who doesn’t love pasta and pizza and all those carbs?” With a smile from Paul, John leads them both towards his car. Just in the short amount of time, he learned that Paul liked all the same music artists: Buddy Holly, Elvis, Chuck Berry… even his guilty pleasure modern artists, whom he will _never ever_ let anyone besides Paul (and a few others) know. Against his own rule, he let Paul pick the music in the car and they ended up yelling the lyrics to _We Didn’t Start The Fire._ They’re favorite line being “California Monkee Mania”.

They ate at a family owned restaurant which used to be a church, the staff greeting Paul like a friend. To John’s surprise, they were seated ahead of the dinner crowd, escorted by the owner. He supposed having a well-known father gave one benefits.

Once, seated a waitress took their drink orders and Paul ended up ordering for the both of them saying, “just trust me,” to wipe the curious look of John’s face. They talked while waiting for their food and John was falling harder and harder for Paul. As the evening progressed on, he couldn’t help but call it a date. It felt like one. John hadn’t had something like this in years, not since he first started courting Cynthia and damn, it feels good.

Especially when he ended up making out with Paul in the car after dinner.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own the Beatles

**Paul’s POV**

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Paul started to speak, wrapping his hands around his glass, “Why are you taking this swimming course?” He remembered the first time he met John, unofficially, that is. The reason he’d taken an interest in John then, still evades him. John really did look absolutely terrified to be there and Paul understood.

“I flunked the other one. Thought it was stupid and I didn’t show up. Turns out, I need the class to get out of this godforsaken place.” John answered unashamed. “I know. Why am I still in school if I hate being there? I can’t decide if it’s because I want to shove it in my Aunt’s face that I can do it, or if I’m doing it because I know I’d get bored.”

McCartney tilted his head. “Your Aunt?”

“It’s complicated, but long story short, dad is a non-existent bastard, mum’s six feet under, and me Aunt’s a dictator, but still a lovely woman when she wants to be.”

Shocked was one of the words that could have been used to describe Paul’s expression and feeling to John’s blasé confession. “Your mum died?”

“Last year. Hit by a sodding police officer, asshat got off with a slap on the wrist.”

“So living with your Aunt is a new arrangement?”

“No. That’s where it gets complicated and depressing.”

The awkward silence, Paul thought, could be felt throughout the whole restaurant. From there, he didn’t know how to carry on the conversation and his fingers became more interesting, until, “My mum’s dead, too.” When he looked back up, he met John’s eyes, bearing into his, urging him to go on. “She drowned in a lake when I was ten. I don’t remember much of what happened and to be honest, I don’t understand what happened. My father never really talks about it. In fact, we don’t really talk about anything.” Complete and total understanding passed between them both, relaxing the previous awkwardness. Paul sipped at his water, suddenly feeling dehydrated.

“Well,” John huffed, “aren’t we a bunch of depressing angsty teenagers.”

Paul snorted. “Time to pull out my Green Day, Fall Out Boy, and My Chemical Romance CDs and dye my hair.”

“You like those bands?” John asked and Paul could not read his companion’s face to decide whether or not the question was meant to be hostile or condescending.

“Maybe…” he tried.

“Oh, thank God. I, too, went through an emo phase. Wait,” John lifted up his hand, index finger slightly raised, “did you dye your hair?”

“Very dark shade of purple. I did it myself. You should have seen the look on my father’s face. I sincerely thought he was going to kill me. To him, it was bad enough that I came out as gay.” Paul scrunched his nose and looked away. _Very smooth, McCartney,_ he thought to himself, _great time to bring that up._

John laughed and it was not the response Paul planned to get. “I get it. My Aunt caught me in a very compromising position with another man a few years ago. She didn’t speak to me for a week.”

Again, Paul was shocked by how blasé John could be about things, but he didn’t press. “Really? Anyone from school?”

“No, but you probably know him,” John paused to consider going forward. “It was Arthur Morgan.”

“The music store owner? John, he’s at least six years older than you.” Paul replied, trying not to be overly surprised.

John hummed, while drinking a glass of water. “That’s really what had Mimi so upset. I was consenting and so was he. S’pose I thought there was something there until I started to realize there wasn’t. Arthur also sensed it and we ended it. Thus, began the tiring circus ride with Cynthia. Still friends with Arthur, though. Don’t buy my records anywhere else.”

Before Paul could respond, the waiter dropped off their meals, a bowl of creamy-looking soup and a basket of bread. Paul looked down at the soup, closed his eyes and sniffed. The scent of spinach and artichoke caused a small, content smile to appear on his face. He observed John hesitantly doing the same thing across the table.

“Oh, damn,” he breathed out, much to Paul’s delight. “What is in here that smells so good?”

“It’s probably all the cheese.” Paul said as he stuck a spoon in the soup to stir the tortellini around. “You might want to add some salt, they tend to under salt it.”

John nodded, reaching out for the salt to sprinkle a little over his soup. “I’m guessing you come here a lot with your family?”

Quickly, Paul swallowed his first bite. “Alone,” he coughed. “I usually come alone. Or with George.” At that, John dropped the conversation to begin eating. Unfortunately, Paul didn’t have such luxury. He tried his best not to be surprised by John’s news that he wasn’t totally straight. From the stories about him and Cynthia, as well as other women, Paul assumed John’s preferences. A little, but rather loud, part of him wants to act. Immediately. But the rational side of him is confused to how John actually feels about him. Sometimes, there was a _lot_ of flirting and other times, normal banter. The problem, however, was his current boyfriend.

“Macca, this was fantastic! I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like this before.” John licked his lips, frowning at the empty bowl.

Paul smiled. “Macca?”

“A nickname.”

“Really? I would have never guessed.”

John snorted, stealing a little of Paul’s bread. “Piss off.”

After Paul finished off the last of his food, he hailed the check. Eating at this restaurant always put him in a better, more relaxed mood. That, and John offered to pay for the both of them. “Don’t get used to it, Macca,” he’d joked. However, Paul took it as a signal that they’d do this again. And soon. With that thought, Paul put a little bit more of a bounce in his step as they left the restaurant.

~~~~

**John’s POV**

“Would you like me to drop you off back at the pool or take you home?” John asked, fishing his keys out of his pocket.

Paul opened the door to John’s car. “Home. I already told my father you’d be dropping me off… if that’s okay?”

“’course. Least I could do after you introduced me to that food.” Smirking, John climbed into the driver’s side of his Ford. He’d bought, really earned, the car from his Aunt. She’d had him running her errands and going to gossip circles as well as taking extra measures to get his grades up. The car belonged to his uncle and he rarely ever drove it, leaving it in great condition for John to use. He’d taken great care of it since, making sure it would always run as if new.

As Paul fiddled with the dial on his radio, John decided what he was going to do and he hoped it would work out the best for him. He smiled over at Paul who was singing along with a song he put on from his phone.

> _Let's be alone together_
> 
> _We could stay young forever_

He’d revealed to John earlier that Fall Out Boy were one of his guilty pleasure bands and he had to admit, they weren’t bad. The music was catchy and it was always fun to guess what they were singing in the chorus.

On the street in front of Paul’s house, John tried his best not to gawk at the sheer size of the place. There was something else he wanted to do and he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

“Thanks for taking me home and accompanying me to dinner. I…I had a great time and I wa – I hope we do it again. Sometime.” Paul bit his lip, running a fingernail up and down the seatbelt across his chest.

 _Oh, fucking go for it, Lennon,_ John chided himself and then leaned in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY TO EVERYONE WHO WAITED ON THIS. I promise I'll update more and finish. I don't want this to be very long.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks and sorry again!!
> 
> I don't own The Beatles or anything that was referenced.

**Paul’s POV**

He should be pushing away, but…

John’s captured every bit of his common sense and twisted it beyond comprehension. Something about the other boy made the signals in Paul’s brain go haywire. His sense of right and wrong should be telling him to ‘stop, you’re spoken for’, but John just felt amazing and the little devil on his shoulder couldn’t give two flying fucks. So, Paul had let his guard down, let himself feel pleasure for once and they kept going until Paul’s phone rang in his swim bag. 

He unwillingly broke away to answer. “Sorry. It’s my father.”

John chuckled, voice just above a whisper. “S’alright. I should head home as well. Auntie’s probably worried a hole in the floor.”

With a soft smile, Paul answered the phone. “Hello?”

_Where are you?_

It was his father and his tone wasn’t friendly. “I’m outside, just got dropped off. Why, what’s happened?”

_Your brother is at the police station. Again. I have to go and get him._

Paul sighed. “Alright, I’ll be right in.”

“Everything alright?” John asked after Paul hung up.

“Fine, yeah. Just your good ol’ family drama. I should probably go.” Opening John’s car door, Paul grabbed his things. He was slightly grateful for his father’s call. For the life of him, he did _not_ want to tell John the truth. He did not want to tell him about Thomas. Never had Thomas made him feel the way John did. With Thomas, he felt drained, emotionally and physically. He had to give so much for so little in return.

“Wait! Hang on,” John caught his wrist. “I want to see you again.”

The plead in John’s voice killed any inkling of telling the truth in Paul. “I do, too.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to have another date.” With another kiss goodbye, he left John to pull off and away from his home. There were butterflies in his stomach up until he reached his front door. As he reached his hand out to the doorknob, his father swung the door open.

“Go inside,” he demanded of his son, “You’ll stay here until I get back.”

Paul blanched. “I will, but why?”

“I want you downstairs when I bring Michael home.”

“Father,” Paul scoffed, “You can’t keep holding Michael to my standards.”

“James, this isn’t up for discussion. You will do as I say. I am your father.”

“Father, he doesn’t-.”

“James Paul, you heard me. There will be no more discussion. You _will_ be here.”

A flinch wracked his body as the elder McCartney slammed the door. He imagined exactly how the conversation would go when his father returned with Michael. Paul would be used as an example of how one _should_ act. It was the same every time his brother got into trouble and all it did was make Michael hate him. Of all things Paul didn’t want, it was that. He never wanted his brother to hate him.

With a tired sigh, he prepared himself for when his father returned.

****

**John’s POV**

The front door creaked open to his aunt’s two-story condo to reveal darkness. John pushed in and chanced, “Mimi, I’m home!” and after a few minutes of no response, “Huh. Wonder where the old buzzard has gotten off to.” Without another thought, John flipped on the kitchen light and made his way over to the fridge for a beer.

_John,_

_Gone off to Loretta’s, she found her husband in bed with another man._

_I’ll be home late,_

_Mimi._

John snorted at the note, popping the top to his bottle with the opener on the fridge. “Serves her right. If I had to be around her for more than an hour or two, I’d turn gay, too. Not that I’m not already, but you get the point…I’ve got to stop talking to myself. Now, where’s that bloody cat? If I talk to him, I won’t seem _as_ crazy.”

Beer in one hand, remote in the other, he threw himself on the couch. A relaxing night with alcohol and Netflix was the best night he could hope for. The only thing missing? The raven-haired swimmer. What John wouldn’t give to have Paul curled up on the couch with him. Sighing, he clicked play on the TV remote to start the next episode of _Merlin._ He’d been through the series multiple times, but still refuses to believe the end and unashamedly cries every time.

Just as the episode hit its high point, his phone dinged from a message. Taking another sip from his bottle, he grabbed his phone from the coffee table. It was from Paul.

_Can I come over?_

And again.

_I just need someone to talk to._

Without batting an eye, John replied.

_Do I need to come get you?_

_No. I’ll walk. Need to clear my head before I see you. Text me your address._

_Okay._

In another message, John sent his Aunt’s address. Paul didn’t live far, so he wasn’t worried about that. It was Paul’s messages. John couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between Paul and his father since he didn’t seem overly concerned about the phone call. Still, the inkling of worry sat heavy in John’s stomach and he paced, nervous and anxious until the moment when Paul would arrive. He should have sent Mimi a text saying he’d have someone over, but that was low on his list of priorities.

For what seemed like hours, John waited. Then, finally, a soft knock.

With more energy than he meant to, John just about leaped towards the door. Under the porch light, Paul looked pale, but John could see the redness in and underneath his hazel eyes. They were more innocent now, with the sadness dripping from them. “Paul, is ev-.”

The younger boy reached out and kissed him and John let it happen for a while before he pulled away, loving the way Paul let out a little huff of air and the way it felt on his lips.

“As much as I want to keep doing this, luv, I need to know what’s going on.”

A little gulp came from Paul and he spoke softly, “I know.”

“There’s a chocolate-chip muffin with your name on it in the kitchen.”

When Paul gave him a smile, John wrapped him in a hug. “There’s the smile.”

The pair made their way into John’s living-room, equipped with a chocolate-chip muffin and a couple beers. They’d chatted about small things first, building up to the heavier topic and John could see Paul relax a little bit. So, he tried.

“What’s brought you here at 11 at night?”

“There’s so much that I want, need to tell you. I don’t know where to start.” Came the guilty reply. When John remained silent, he continued, “I. God. I hate living at home. My brother hates me and I can’t convince him that I’m not our father. And my father. He’s a tyrant and so un-emotional. He refuses to accept that I’m gay. He refuses to acknowledge it. He uses me against my little brother, who I used to be so close with. I know I come with a lot of baggage.”

“No more than anyone else,” John replied, “You can’t always carry this stuff alone.”

“I don’t really have anyone to talk to.”

“That bloke you swim with, George. What about him?”

“He doesn’t do well with this kind of emotional crap. He’s got the perfect family life. Lots of brothers and sisters and a loving mother and father. And…” Paul stopped and pulled away from John, a look that John couldn’t place crossing his tear-flushed face. “John, I’ve lied to you. But I promise I’m going to resolve it.”

“I don’t… I’m trying to figure out what it is that could possibly make me want to give this up.” And it was true. John didn’t want to give it up. Never had he been able to talk to someone so easily and them reciprocate just as easily. Not with Cyn and certainly not with the one-night-stands he’d had in between. Yes, maybe he was a lunatic, but if lunacy meant being happy, then so be it. John had seen _How I Met Your Mother,_ and he maybe identified a little with Ted. Now, he wouldn’t admit this aloud to anyone, but Paul might be his ‘one’.

“I’m in a relationship.”

_That’s okay. I’ll wait for you._ Is what John should have said, but it came out, “Oh.”

“I promise, I’ll break up with him. I’ve been meaning to but never can. Please, I want this.” The pleading in Paul’s voice shattered his heart.

“What do you mean, ‘meaning to but never can’?”

“He’s really depressed and I’m afraid that if I leave him, he’d…”

John blinked, scrunching his forehead. “Did he tell you that?”

“Tell me what?”

“That he’d hurt himself if you left him?”

“It’s draining me, John and it makes me a horrible person that I think that. I don’t want to see Thomas hurt.”

“Wait. Thomas who?”

“Kellert.”

“Oh, boy. Paul you might want another beer for this.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next! I'm only making 10 chapters out of this, so bear with me as those will be heftier. 
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own The Beatles or anything else referenced!!!

**John’s POV**

“Oh, boy. Paul, you might want another beer for this.” John said as he made the connection in his head. The look on Paul’s face made him want to wrap the boy in blankets. “Listen, I sometimes don’t hang around the best people. Don’t really talk to any of them except to hand over an occasional ciggy. I stay with the art people, like Stuart. But, that artsy fart doesn’t have anything to do with this. Anyways, when I catch a smoke outside, I sometimes hear things from that crowd. You know, the real rough-and-tough types. Not until, quite literally, just now, I made the connection. Thomas is part of those people, Paul.”

A scoff came from Paul. “That’s not true. He has asthma, he can’t smoke.”

John gave a pained smile. “Like a chimney, son.”

“That’s not possible! He’s abused at home and bullied at school, you’ve got the wrong Thomas. He spends nights at my house because he’s terrified of his father.”

“Paul, he smacks around his family and others. Not the other way ‘round.”

Silence infiltrated the room and John felt the uncomfortableness filter through like a hurricane force wind. Paul was definitely thinking and it wasn’t in John’s favor. Although, John knew what it was like to believe one thing and be told another. His childhood was a testament to the fact.

“I’ll be creepy and snap some pictures if you want me to.” John tried with a little jest in his voice.

“I don’t know.” The reply was so quiet that John barely heard it.

“Okay, maybe I’m being selfish, here considering I’m not exactly a neutral party, but it sounds to me like he’s hurting you and…and I don’t like that. It sounds childish and maybe I’m acting like a child. I want you for myself. I get it, though, if you don’t want to have anyone smothering you. In Confucian practice, you need to cultivate your self and work towards harmony in your self before it can work in a community.”

“What the hell is that?” Paul said, face twisted in confusion and a little amusement, but no longer dripping with complete misery. It confused John, too.

“What is what?”

“Confucian practice? Where did that come from?” John heard the joking present and wasn’t amused. Okay, maybe he was a little amused.

“Hey!” John laughed, “I read. I told you that the first time we met.”

“You’re really very smart, John. Why do you insist on calling yourself stupid?”

And John couldn’t answer. People had always assumed the worst of him and maybe he felt inclined to give them what they asked for. “Because I feel like I am.”

“Does anyone tell you you’re not?”

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“Well, you’re not stupid and you’re also not fat. I saw how nervous you looked in just a bathing suit around other people. You’re actually quite fit. Very attractive. Thought so from the first time.” Paul blushed, watching his feet leave impressions on the soft blue carpet and then wiping it away with a swift movement.

“I love you.” John blurted before he could throw what made for his filter in his brain. “Oh, fuck. I _am_ Ted Mosby.”

McCartney threw his head back in laughter, starting from his stomach and reaching all the way to his eyes. John adored the sight because there was no longer any sadness or anger or confusion, he’d made Paul happy. He watched Paul calm back down, wiping tears from his eyes. To someone on the outside, there were probably little, pink smoke-hearts coming out of his ears and eyes, not to mention a goofy smile. It was a fact and a pretty blatant one, too. John. Was. _Besotted._

“Yeah, you may be. But in this case, Ted’s getting an ‘I Love You’ back. It’s so soon and probably a little stupid on our part, but I feel like we’ve known each other before. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still furious about Thomas and I want you to be certain. I want to come with you next time. I need to see it for myself.”

****

**Paul POV**

As Paul rubbed his face on his pillow and then settled back down, he felt his pillow rise and fall.

And then he realized. “Fucking shit!”

As his limbs caught up with his brain, he elbowed the figure under him, whose body violently flinched awake. Paul’s body got tossed on the ground with a thud.

“Shit. Sorry, Paulie. Are you okay? What time is it?”

“I don’t…oh, God. It’s eight in the morning. I’m dead. If you don’t hear from me in a few hours I’m probably buried in my backyard.”

Now fully awake, John responded. “Do you need me to go with you?

“Best if you don’t. My father will kill us both. Let me call George and try and set up a cover story.”

“Let me drive you. I’ll take the blame.”

Paul stopped and ran a hand through John’s hair. “If I do that, my father won’t let me see you again. It’s best if I walk home. If my father hasn’t already called the Harrison’s, George will cover for me. He might have already done so. I need my phone.”

Leaning into the touch before Paul pulled away, John spoke. “Okay. Let me know, though, if you’re okay,” he paused and then laughed, ignoring how Paul’s face twisted. “A week ago, I wouldn’t have even said words like that. What have you done to me, McCartney?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.” Paul’s face softened into amusement. “I guess I’m yours.”

Lennon snorted. “You’ve got quite a high opinion of yerself, Macca.”

“It’s the silver spoon.”

“Aye. And how about you let me remove it?”

Paul raised his voice an octave, in imitation of a female. “Methinks not, mine love.”

“Thou art my love, I think.”

“Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace. And like Limander am I trusty still.” Paul felt his voice go back down to a normal octave with the mood becoming a little more serious. Again, John managed to crush all rumors.

“And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.”

“Not Shafalus to Pocrus was so true,” Paul shook his head. “You’ve memorized Shakespeare? I don’t get you, John Lennon. I really, _really_ don’t.”

With a quick quirk of the eyebrows, John leapt off the couch. A rustle of keys was all Paul heard before the other boy returned, face half hidden behind the wall to the hallway and obviously intent on driving Paul. “Oh, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!”

Making his way to where John stood, Paul kissed him and then said. “Just so you know… that’s my line, Thisbe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to those who commented! I haven't been getting emails from AO3 that someone's commented on my works. Thanks and I do appreciate all the comments! They make me feel guilty and they keep this story alive. :D

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for giving you this crap. Not my best work.


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